


Kiss Me on the Mouth (and set me free)

by PalenDrome (nerdherderette)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Creature Fic, Draco Malfoy/Others (brief mention), Explicit Sexual Content, H/D Consent Fest, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Not Between Draco and Harry, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Second Person, Vampire Draco Malfoy, Vampire Turning, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 15:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13126554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdherderette/pseuds/PalenDrome
Summary: Finding a partner to sate his needs has never presented a dilemma for Draco. That is, until he encounters the fit and willing Head Auror.[excerpt]:He feels your eyes on him. They lift, boring into your own, their shape widening slowly in surprise. They’re as beautiful as ever with their unfathomable, bottle-glass green, although the circles underneath cast his expression as sad and hollow.Just because you’re nocturnal doesn’t mean you can’t read the dailies. Or the meaning behind the lines that start to mar his famous forehead. You know about his failed marriage. His drunken binges. His numerous flings.You suspect that perhaps, he is lonely too.





	Kiss Me on the Mouth (and set me free)

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt **# 103**  
>  _A PWP where not a word is spoken, but consent is still explicit_
> 
> Dearest prompter: the possibilities of your prompt especially given the context of this fest were just fantastic. I loved filling this one; I hope it hits on some of the things you were looking for!! <3
> 
> Thanks to the amazing [magpie_fngrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/pseuds/magpie_fngrl) for her insightful beta work and encouragement as well as to [multifandomhomo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/multifandomhomo/pseuds/multifandomhomo) for his read and reassurance as I stepped outside my comfort zone. And kudos to the lovely mods for creating and hosting such a wonderful (and timely!) fest.
> 
> Title copped from the lyrics of [**Bite,**](https://genius.com/Troye-sivan-bite-lyrics) by Troye Sivan.

 

* * *

The first time it happens, it catches you by surprise. It’s nothing like your _other_ first time—the one which you experienced when your blood still beat warmly in your veins, colouring your cheeks, moistening your breath, and suffusing your loins.

The time when you could still be considered a Wizard. A Death Eater.

A _human_.

Looking back, it’s a bloody miracle that you can recall your initiation into your new life with even a modicum of rational thought. Your muscles had been loosened, your nerves buzzing, your brain muzzy from the lights and booze and the intoxicating feel of all those hands and lips against your sweaty skin as you shimmied and posed.

You know how inviting you can look. The combination of your delicate bone structure, your full lips, your impeccable clothes, and the halo of your white-blond hair under the flickering lights can be quite irresistible, after all.

But _looking_ inviting is not the same as an actual offer to dine. Especially when you’re the one being presented as the main course.

The transformation had been fast and hard: the press of brick against your back, enough to leave the bruising remnants of their sharp edges on your pale flesh, no match for the soft cotton of your shirt. A deft hand on your cock, the mutual scent and sounds of arousal filling the air. Eyes that glittered with lust and possessiveness and eventual _hunger,_ their golden rims swallowed in a sea of inky black, the traces of scarlet seeping into their edges in the moonlight.

Wet lips, greedy and demanding, latch themselves to the most vulnerable part of your neck. The one which lies along the graceful curve, the area that entices, that part which you’ve learned to show off just so. Where less than a millimeter of covering separates you from your lifeforce, sweet and seductive, ethereal yet powerful, born from the depths of your heart.

Part of you screams that this is wrong. You will your arms and legs to move but a lovely lassitude falls over you instead. You stare into their ancient eyes, and a shiver of _want_ passes through you until you bare your neck even further, welcoming the sharp pinpricks of pain which burn in its place as your head grows foggy with lust. You close your eyes, the flickering shadows playing like a kinetoscope over your lids, _light-dark-light-dark_ in concert with the thumping bass and distant laughter as you arch into their embrace and moan.

Your torso feels limp but your cock is rock-hard, aching as you seek release. You’ll do _anything_ to get off—get down on your knees, frot against that delicious body that’s sustaining you as you writhe like a shameless whore. Beg. Plead. Relive the pain and uncertainty, and the humiliating pride that comes along with being branded with yet another Dark Mark.

A low chuckle sounds loudly in your ear. The tip of a tongue laps gently over your new wounds, making you shudder all over again. Then another bite—not one of pain, but of promise. The press of cool flesh against your parched lips, along with something sticky and forbidden and oh-so-tempting...

The metallic burst of copper greets your greedy mouth. It’s tangy and cloying, almost sickeningly sweet, and as your orgasm shoots through you, dazzling you with its strength, you think it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.

**~OoO~**

Over the next several months, the thirst for blood and sex means you’re constantly on the pull. You’ve never had problems finding willing partners, between your money and your breeding and your good looks, but now it’s almost _too_ easy, the way they throw themselves at your feet.

Oftentimes in groups of two or three.

Your fair skin is even fairer, the cornsilk beauty of your hair makes the moon ache with jealousy, and your movements are more graceful, not to mention lethally fast. Your lips seem fuller—poutier—all the better to seduce, and to hide the razor-sharp tips of your elongated teeth. Your grey eyes—silvery, icy orbs, once a source of pride in your lineage and a prize to your vanity—still dazzle. But they also beguile. Entice. Bewilder. Hypnotise in ways which they never had before.

In the first few months after you’ve turned, you depend on your new talents, relish your newfound strengths. Voldemort was wrong; perhaps that’s why he despised the creatures so. Even the most powerful witch or wizard is no match for the force of your Allure. It’s a heady sensation, after the years of being under the thumbs of countless others, to finally make them do what _you_ want.

But months trickle into years, and things slowly change. Apparently even the most insatiable thirsts can be quenched, after all. There’s no thrill to the chase, no surprise or delight, when everything is laid out for you every night. A veritable feast; a buffet of flesh and blood and sex. It should be enough to sate any glutton, but it leaves you feeling strangely empty inside.

During those rare instances where you allow yourself to indulge in self-pity, a part of you longs for your former frailty. For the excitement and uncertainty of desire. It’s another thing which the Dark Lord got wrong, amongst many. Subduing people through power and fear is a tenuous game in comparison to motivators such as compassion and love. It’s temporary. It’s superficial.

It’s also unbearably lonely.

Your mind wanders, waxing philosophical about the magnitude of your burden and the validity of your existence as you watch your mother grow more frail, your friends swollen with child or pregnant with the weight of their dreams. You convince yourself that immortality is a gift reserved for only a few, when in reality you’d trade it all for the companionship and love of another.

You’ve always been very good at fooling yourself. Trust _him_ to come along, and rip all your illusions apart.

He looks… different. His years of working as an Auror have done magnificent things to his physique. He’s lean; his muscular shape now matches the magical power which he’s always wielded, but he’s still wary, still tense, as if he’s still uncomfortable in his own skin.

And what lovely skin it is.

He glows. Even at night, the expanse of his flesh looks golden, its hue brightened further by the incandescent lights. It reminds you of the sun in all its glory; you can see the beach, smell the saltwater, and your fangs lengthen just a bit even as your chest tightens at how long it’s been since you’ve felt the force of daylight on your own pallid face.

He feels your eyes on him. They lift, boring into your own, their shape widening slowly in surprise. They’re as beautiful as ever with their unfathomable, bottle-glass green, although the circles underneath cast his expression as sad and hollow.

Just because you’re nocturnal doesn’t mean you can’t read the dailies. Or the meaning behind the lines that start to mar his famous forehead. You know about his failed marriage. His drunken binges. His numerous flings.

You suspect that perhaps, he is lonely too.

His eyes flick quickly down the length of your body before returning to your face. He’s fast, but not fast enough. He’s an Auror—the Head, with privileges few would ever know; he must have heard of your mysterious disappearance, of the rumours of your rebirth which had turned out to be quite true. His curiosity is palpable, and it causes your lips to pull into a smirk. It seems that three years of blood-sucking, soul-devouring parasitism isn’t enough to wipe away over half a lifetime of history.

That full mouth thins as those gorgeous eyes narrow. There’s a hard set to his jaw, but there’s something else. You notice the way his breath catches. You can hear the quickening of his heartbeat, the way his nostrils flare. The way his lips part so invitingly.

A part of you wants to take, take, _take_ and consume, consume, consume. For all the years of wanting, of never feeling that you could measure up. To see just how much you can push him until he’s reduced to a frenzied, panting mess, needing you as much as you've ever needed or wanted him.

To devour _._ To _possess._

But another part of you wants something more. He’s always been different, in the way that your histories and destinies were forever intertwined, a synergy and symbiosis rooted in fearful misunderstandings, childish hate, begrudging admiration, and unwanted and incontrovertible physical attraction. It’s a relationship that’s always existed; your awareness of him since you first met has been ingrained in your soul, the depth of your feeling, your antipathy, and eventual reluctant approbation summed up in one simple word:

Potter.

_Malfoy._ Your name leaves his lips. Not spoken, not limited by the letters of the English language, nor the restrictions placed by their symbols and syllables. It escapes as a sigh, its meaning lingering on his breath, from that part of him which he’s always held deep within.

From which he now feels free to let go.

You want him. You hunger for him. And you long for that in return—not just as an attraction to the creature.

You want him to want _you._

You tamp down everything you’ve used to entice over the last several years. You’ve always been good at suppressing, at hiding, but unlike your pitiful efforts as a schoolboy, this time you lower all your veils until what’s uncovered is _just_ you. You restrain your charms, stifle those gifts which had been given to seduce and corrupt as your body shudders from the possibility of damning yourself once more. You bare yourself, making yourself vulnerable once again to his judgment, his decision. And when he takes a step forward, and then another, the smell of his arousal makes you whimper and ache from somewhere low inside.

Your sensations are sharpened; for years they have been, but never quite like this. You feel the scratch of his stubble as his mouth claims yours, and you wonder if he will be the one who marks your now-flawless skin. His tongue is greedy, his lips more so—strong and chapped, tasting of whisky and dark promise. The strands of his hair are surprisingly soft as they slip through your fingers, their glossy lengths just long enough to wrap around your fist. His hands are rough and strong as they etch their way along your back, your sides, and your hips in a way that you will never forget.

Not that you ever could. He had already branded you, long, long ago.

His heart thuds, beckoning you from beneath the thinness of his shirt, past the thick muscles and hard planes of his chest. He pulls back and, to your embarrassment, you make a move to follow. When he gazes into your eyes to ask for permission you give him a small nod, even though you’re not certain exactly what it is you’re consenting to.

If you weren’t already, you’d surely be dead from the anticipation as he wraps his arm around your waist. He draws you against him, kissing you one more time and stealing your breath as he Apparates you into his home.

You can’t remember the countless times which you’ve sunk your prick and teeth into something warm but somehow he makes everything feel like it’s the first time. The _only_ time. The tantalising taste of his skin causes your nerves to alight, makes you hum as you kiss his flat stomach, his dark nipples, and the erotic line of his neck. His legs fall open, drawing you close; you need to lick, to taste. To lap up his musky scent, in that most intimate of places.

He arches his back and wriggles his hips, and presses himself into you. _Offers_ himself to your mouth and pushes himself against your face. You crawl over him, whispering a spell as you sink your cock into his heat, pinned by the fierceness of his gaze like predator and prey. It’s rough and it’s primal, and in that moment, it feels like it’s been a lifetime in the making.

He bares his neck, pulling you in to scent his oblation. You hesitate… but then he thrusts his hips, holding you close as he begs with his body, pleads with his eyes, and offers himself up once more. His hand lifts, swiping away at the crystalline drops which gather at the corners of your eyes as you silently weep.

You bite. His ambrosia spills into your mouth; your tongue catches each precious drop as it laps lovingly over the wound while he screams your name.

*******

Three months later, he asks. The utter Gryffindor. The way he looks in the morning, rumpled, sated, and happy, beckons to the human part of you that still remains. The part that doesn’t mind waking up in someone else’s bed with their arms wound tightly around you, even when you’ve already fucked and eaten your fill. You care for him too much to consign him to your fate, however, so you deny him over and over again, even though it tears your heart in two.

*******

Six months later, you’ve stopped thinking of the two of you as _‘me’_ and _‘him,’_ but rather, _‘us.’_ He’s got his legs wrapped around your shoulders as you start to suck his cock. It’s thick and beautiful and so very responsive, the smooth weight of it swelling deliciously as it slides hot and wet against your tongue. You shift, preparing to take him fully into your mouth when you feel his hands gripping your chin. His gaze never falters as he guides your right hand away from his arse and places it over the left side of his chest. To where his heart beats steadily.

Strong and sure.

He no longer says _‘Please,’_ but _'I love you’_ as he brings your head back down. Not towards his cock, but towards his groin. To that part of him which pulsates with life.

You bend your head over your wrist and taste yourself for the first time, staring in fascination at the pair of crimson dots that gradually stains your skin. He looks at you and nods, sighing in rapturous pleasure as you bring them to his lips.

_He’s yours. You're his._

He suckles eagerly as he places your head back into his lap and your teeth slowly sink into his warm and willing flesh.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Part of what drew me to this prompt was the challenge of demonstrating non-verbal consent, especially in a predatory creature with the capabilities of hypnosis and seduction. I approached it from several different angles:  
> 1) contrasting Harry and Draco's relationship with instances of non/dub-consent (in Draco’s own turning, and in his interactions with his partners pre-Harry)  
> 2) highlighting the attributes available to Vampire!Draco to entice, and describing his efforts to mute them when he first encounters Harry  
> 3) suggesting Harry’s active and willing participation in several critical scenes through his body language, and finally  
> 4) reversing the events of the actual turning (Draco offers himself up first, thereby giving Harry the final choice)
> 
>  
> 
> *Come say "hi" on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nerdherderette)


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